


Is It Too Late To Say I'm Sorry?

by NaughtySammyBoy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Feels, Sex, and more feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 21:26:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6210709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaughtySammyBoy/pseuds/NaughtySammyBoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"With every part of my heart, mind, and soul; I love you, Sam Winchester. And I would spend my last breath on those words, just so you could hear them one more time."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Is It Too Late To Say I'm Sorry?

**Author's Note:**

> I fucking obliterated myself writing this. I think the kids call it _Death By Feels_ or some hooey like that. So grab some tissues and enjoy the emotional train wreck this fic turned into. (And, for the sake of this fic, let's just pretend that the timeline adds up correctly lmao just humor me, y'all)

Three years, two months, fifteen days, four hours, three minutes, and thirty-four seconds.  
  
That's how long it had been since you'd slipped away into the shadows of the night, duffle bag loaded up on your shoulder and tears running hot down your face, the only witness being the stars and the moon where it shone high in the dark sky above. It was the hardest thing you had ever done, but it _needed_ to be done.  
  
He was still your first thought in the morning and the last before you let sleep take over at night. You hadn't told him you were leaving, but you knew it's what you needed to do. He had started to distance himself, the weight of the world heavy on his shoulders and evident in his tired eyes, and there was too much doubt and fear and pain for you to bear—so you left before it ended badly.  
  
Three years, two months, fifteen days, four hours, five minutes, and twenty-seven seconds.  
  
That's how long it had been since you felt the warmth of him around you. One thousand, one hundred and seventy-two days since you breathed in the crisp scent of his skin, or felt that last heart-wrenching press of his lips against yours. And every memory of him is still as fresh as they had been all those years ago.  
  
Some days, when you think hard enough, you can still smell him—fresh laundromat linen, cheap motel shampoo, and something so uniquely _him_. You can see those kaleidoscope eyes, flecks of golden amber dancing amongst shallow pools of clear blue, and in certain light or when he was angry, the two mingled with sharp emerald green. You could still feel the press of his fingertips in your flesh, his soft lips grazing the shell of your ear, his words of love and want and desire falling from his mouth in quiet whispers and the heat of his breathing.  
  
Three years, two months, fifteen days, four hours, ten minutes, and nine seconds.  
  
And still counting.

* * *

  
  
You wake up early, the weight hanging in your chest still as heavy as it had been the night before, the scratchy sheets of the motel bed wrapped around your legs and the ceiling still the same gross, crumbling popcorn texture you'd stared at for hours last night, before finally closing your eyes. Your throat's dry and your stomach churns with hunger, but you lay there, quiet and alone, for just a few more minutes, the burden of a new day tugging at the edges of your foggy mind.  
  
It's pathetic, you think. The cracks in your heart were still split, and they still ached the same they had the night you left—only now, there weren't any more tears to be shed. There was just this dark emptiness that settled deep within your bones and stayed there, and not even the overcompensation of alcohol and fuzzy-brained one nighters could make it go away.   
  
Your feet drag when you eventually do pull yourself out of bed and head into the bathroom. There's no light in your dim eyes when you look in the mirror, nor is there a healthy blushing glow to your cheeks like there used to be. You look as hollow as you feel, no matter how hard you try to build yourself from the ground up. The thought of him is heavy. On your mind, on your heart, and ever-growing within your soul.  
  
You push them away like you do every morning and focus on the current task at hand—one hell of a werewolf case. You'd done the research, tracked the thing, and now, you were just waiting for the right time to strike.  
  
In the meantime, breakfast sounded good.  
  
You lock up your motel room and climb up into your old beat up truck, making the short drive into town.  You stop at the only red light in the whole place, tapping your fingers on the worn leather of the steering wheel as you try to not think about him. That task is made easy when you're suddenly jolted forward from the impact of someone tapping into the back bumper of your car, just hard enough to make you gasp violently.  
  
"What the—"  
  
You unfasten your seat belt and hop out without even looking in the rearview, suddenly seething with red-hot anger.  
  
"Hey, buddy! Watch where the fuck you’re going!"  
  
The words come tumbling out of your down turned mouth before you have adequate time to register the shining black gleam of an old car you know far too well. And when the owner of said car climbs out, his familiar face screwed up in annoyance and guilt, you feel like you're going to be sick.  
  
"Pull up more next time, lady!" He shouts back as he slams his door shut with a heavy hand, his green eyes still having not looked up to notice you. You can't speak, and your throat has closed up where your breathing has hitched embarrassingly. "Well? Aren't you going to say any—" He stops abruptly, his eyes widening with realization once he _really_ looks at you and his lips curl up into a small, nostalgic smile. "Y/N?"  
  
"Dean," you breathe, your voice going no higher than a whisper as you start to tremble. Then suddenly, you’re wrapped in warmth, the strong arms of a man who was once your best friend wrapped around you, tight, safe, and secure in their hold.  
  
"Where the fuck have you been, kid?" He whispers with a breathy laugh, his gaze soft and careful when he pulls back to look at you again, his hands steady on your upper arms. "God, it's good to see you," he smiles, his eyes shifting to where your cars have gotten too close. "Well, even given the current situation," he chuckles, still the same Dean way he always has.  
  
You nod, because there's not much else your body will allow you to do, the shock of seeing him still buzzing through you like high voltage. The honks of cars still waiting behind yours suddenly blare, along with the colorful curses the drivers shout out their windows as they speed around, tires screeching hatefully just to prove how pissed they really are.  
  
"I was um, just heading to that diner up the street," you tell Dean once you find your voice, "Wanna join me? My treat."  
  
"You know I never decline a meal I don't have to pay for," Dean grins as he steps away from you, "Lead the way."  
  
The short drive to the diner is nerve wracking, and you don't think your knuckles could blanch any more than they already have from how hard you're gripping the steering wheel. Dean's hot on your trails as he follows you into the diner and takes the seat across from you at the booth you chose, in the farthest corner away from the busy noise of the breakfast rush.  
  
"How've you been?" Dean asks, his smile small but warm.  
  
"Good," you say, clearing your throat before following up with, "How 'bout you?"  
  
"Good," Dean nods, and the awkwardness of the short exchange settles over the table in the form of thick silence, the words and questions you both are too afraid to say or ask hanging in the air, just dangling in your shifty eyes and sitting upon the tips of your quiet, unmoving tongues. "He misses you," Dean finally says after a deep sigh, voice solemn and low.  
  
"Dean, please don't—"  
  
"No, we're gonna talk about it," Dean interrupts, growing stern and serious, eyes flickering with intense green flames, "You just up and disappeared in the middle of the night; no goodbyes or even a fuck you see ya later, and you went radio silent. Three years, Y/N—three fuckin' years."  
  
"I had to leave, Dean," you reply in a small voice, pleading desperation dripping from every word, "I had to leave before it ended badly."  
  
"Bullshit," Dean hisses, "You ran away." You go in to defend yourself but Dean stops you before you can, shaking his head and holding up a hand to silence your already open mouth. "Now, I understand the reasons you left; Sammy was laden with guilt and stress and he was pushing you away, but to sneak away and ignore his calls? Hell, even _my_ calls? We looked everywhere, Y/N, Sammy looked everywhere and called everyone we know looking for you, and you just cut us out of your lives, clean and dry and without even telling us you were leaving."  
  
"What was I supposed to do, Dean?" You bite out, leaning into the table and trying to control the bubbling pool of warm anger that was seeping into your blood. "I couldn't do it, okay? I couldn't look into his eyes and say goodbye, I physically could _not_ do it, Dean."  
  
"Then why didn't you, at _least_ , tell _me_ you were leavin'?" Dean shoots back, trying in vain to keep his voice down. "You were my best fucking friend," he grits out, "You could have at least warned me so I could have knew how to effectively handle Sam. He was fucking devastated, Y/N, and you know him just as well as I do; he's a fuckin' martyr, he blamed himself for you leaving. The guilt of it almost killed him."  
  
"What are you talking about?" You ask, voice shaky with the emotional weight of the last sentence.  
  
"He got sloppy with a few hunts after you left," Dean sighs, rubbing a hand down his face, "He carried the baggage of you just up and leaving around with him for months. He didn't eat, didn't sleep, and didn't give a fuck whether or not some slime-ball monster tore him to shreds. He was a wreck...still is some days." Dean takes your silence as a queue to continue; "And judgin' by the way you're faring, you ain't doin' much better. You look a damn mess, kid."  
  
The smile that creeps upon your face doesn't meet your eyes, the dimness of them hollow, but at the same time, filled with all the emotions you'd been harboring over the years. "I miss him," you say in a small voice, deciding that lying to Dean would be pointless, "But I can't face him, Dean. I still haven't forgiven myself for leaving, so I know _he_ hasn't forgiven me."  
  
"He forgave you a long time ago, Y/N," Dean says softly, and the tears that well up in your eyes are uncontrollable. "Now, I'm not sayin' you have to see him," Dean shrugs, "You're a grown woman and your decisions are your own; but for the sake of both’a you, just give him a call."  
  
"I don't know if I can," you choke up, "If I hear his voice, I...I'll just..."  
  
"Listen to me," Dean says as he places a hand over yours atop the shabby, outdated table, "Sam's hurtin' just as bad, even if he _is_ stubborn as a mule's ass and won't admit it, so just...think about it."  
  
You nod, sniffling back the tears, and Dean lets the subject drop after that, smiling as he places his order to the young waitress who comes bouncing up to the booth. You snort and roll your eyes as Dean gives her a slow up and down glance and grins with boyish charm—even though he's probably twice this girl's age.   
  
_Same ol' Dean._    
  
You and Dean discuss the werewolf case that just so happened to be the same reason you were both in town. You tell Dean you'd give him the information you'd collected and let him handle it, the thought of coming face to face with Sam again being too much to bear at that moment. He insists you come along, but you decline with a fleeting smile, one that probably looks just as sad and pathetic as you feel.  
  
You pay the ticket and bid farewell to Dean with a hug, one that's long and heart-breaking. "Don't be a stranger, kid," he says into your hair, "Hate to hafta hunt your ass down." You smile sadly and nod into his shoulder, breathing in his comforting scent as you battle the emotions roaring inside you. "I won't tell Sam about this," he promises, "I’ll let you come to him when you're ready."  
  
Your eyes flutter closed when he pulls back and place a short kiss to your temple, and when you finally lift your lids, Dean's already slid into the driver's seat of the Impala and cranked the rumbling engine to life. You don't think you breathe until you see him pull out the parking lot and disappear into the waving heat of the paved street.

* * *

  
  
It's a full two and half weeks before you pick up your phone, your thumb hesitating over the call button once you've pulled up that contact you'd been avoiding for years, the one you never had the guts or heart to delete from your life. It rings three times before going to voice mail, the deep "You've reached Sam, leave a message after the beep" making your heart hammer against your ribs like a raging bull ready to buck right through your chest.  
  
"Um...hi," you shake as you speak into the phone, "I know this is probably a surprise, and, to be honest; I'm not sure why I'm calling or if you even want to speak to me, but...I guess I just needed to hear your voice." The tears are heavy and thick in your eyes and voice when you add a soft, "I'm sorry, Sam."  
  
After you hang up, it's only then you remember you forgot to tell him it was you, but if he's anything like you—he would never forget the voice.  
  
It's another four days before your phone rings, right around two o'clock in the morning, and you have to remember how to breathe when you check to see who's calling. You had almost given up hope, the daunting thought of _it's too late_ repeating over and over again in your head as you awaited his call.  
  
"Hello?" You answer, your voice shaky and light. And the silence you're met with makes your stomach churn uneasily inside you. "Sam?" You question, finding it hard to breathe all over again, "You there?"  
  
"Yeah," he whispers through the phone, "I'm here."  
  
More silence, only it’s thicker and more mind-numbing this time.  
  
"I got your message," Sam says after a while, his tone of voice trembling with the emotion you know he's trying to fight against. "I um...I didn't know how bad I needed to hear your voice until I heard it," he tells you, "I'm sorry I waited so long to call back."  
  
"No," you smile around the soft whisper, "It's fine, I know I uh...I must have taken you by surprise by calling out of the blue the way I did." _And by the nudging of your incessant ass of a brother—_ you want to add, but you don't.  
  
"I'm glad you did," Sam says, and you can _hear_ the faltering smile he gives as he speaks.  
  
"I'm sorry, Sam," you say back, soft and shaky.  
  
"You don't have to—"  
  
"But I do," you stop him, pinching the bridge of your nose between your fingers harshly as you rock in the chair you're sat in at the rickety table of yet another cheap, barely two star motel. "I have to, Sam," you breathe out, "If I don't say it, I'll...I'll never be able to forgive myself. I need to say the words, I need to say I'm sorry; I'm sorry I left the way I did, without saying goodbye."  
  
"Why did you?" Sam questions, shocking you to the core—even though you had already prepared yourself for the question earlier in the week. "Why _didn't_ you say goodbye?"  
  
"Because, I knew if I looked into your eyes; the word wouldn't have come out and I would have stayed," you tell him honestly, "You were faced with so much; the apocalypse looming over your head, the decision about saying yes to Lucifer, that I...I knew if I didn't leave, I would have had to watch you throw yourself into that pit and…the only goodbye I would have gotten was one that broke my heart even more than my decision about leaving had. I just...I couldn't do it, Sam."   
  
You stop to wipe the tears away from your eyes before continuing. "I couldn't stand the thought of losing you that way," you whimper, "So I left before I had to."  
  
"Why didn't you call me after you left?" Sam asks, voice cracking right down the middle, "Why didn't you just call to tell me all that? I wouldn't have made you come back, it's just...I would have had a better understanding if you had just told me."  
  
"I'm sorry," you sob, "I missed you so damn much, that if I _had_ called; I knew I would have backpedaled. I'm so sorry, Sam, I can't say it enough. I'm _sorry_." More silence. "And I know it's way too late," you say, your chin trembling, "But I just need you to know that I never stopped loving you, not one damn second. And I just... _I'm sorry_."  
  
"It's never too late," Sam says after a while, voice warm and unwavering in its gentleness, "I still love you, Y/N. I always will."  
  
You laugh lightly through your tears as you nod, even though Sam can't see it. "I've missed you," you tell him, "Hearing your voice just reminds me how much I fucking missed you."  
  
Sam's soft chuckle rings in your ears. "I know we have a lot to talk about but," he stops to breathe before asking, "Where are you right now?"  
  
"Cheyenne, Wyoming," you answer without hesitation, heart jumping up into your throat, "I'm at the Blue Ridge motel right off the interstate, room fourteen."  
  
"Can I come see you?" Sam asks, voice hesitant and light.  
  
"Please," you whisper.  
  
"I'll be there by morning," he tells you, chuckling when he remembers it's close to three a.m., "Well, _later_ in the morning."  
  
"Okay," you smile, "And Sam?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Be careful, please."  
  
"Don't worry."  
  
"You know I will."

* * *

  
  
You don't sleep, the excitement combined with the nerve wracking feeling of anxiousness proving to be a stealthy competitor when put in the ring with your _almost_ nonexistent tiredness. You feel alive for the first time in years, and the overwhelming idea of seeing Sam again, in the flesh, makes you vibrate with all sorts of emotion—a mixture of fear, love, and joy, all wrapped up in a bow of apprehension.  
  
You busy yourself until the sun starts peeking through the cheap, threadbare curtains covering the shambles that pass for motel windows. You start by picking up the clothes that had been strew across the room, piling up from your week long stay at the motel. Once that grows more tedious than helpful, you sift through your duffle for a fresh set of clothes and take a shower, enjoying the warm water until you feel your fingers start to prune.  
  
Sitting still turns out to be a challenge, so you end up pacing the length of the small room, worrying at your thumbnail with your teeth until a soft knock echoes in your ears. And suddenly, all the air leaves your lungs and settles in your throat, your chest rising and falling with an unsteady rhythm as your heart triples its efforts to beat properly.  
  
When you unlatch the chain lock and grab the knob, a shiver rolls down your back and you take a short series of deep breaths before pulling the door open. And when you see that familiar face and those hazel eyes you could drown in, a salutation just sits on your tongue, not moving or being spoken.  
  
But, when Sam steps through the threshold and crashes his lips into yours, words suddenly don't seem important. His warm palms cradle your burning cheeks as his long fingers slide into your hair, his nostrils flaring as he breathes into the kiss, his lips quietly speaking for him as they move against you with longing and urgency.  
  
You give him your all, licking the unsaid words into his mouth as he kicks the door closed and grabs your hips, and you can tell by the tight grip, that slow and steady won't win this race—not this time anyway. Your lips only part from his to bare each other of your tops, and even then, your lips burn for more, already greedy and selfish with the desire you _still_ harbor for Sam.  
  
You hum into his open mouth when he roughly pushes your shorts and panties down, his hands just as greedy and selfish as your lips when he trails his caress down your naked skin, grabbing and feeling the swells and curves he still knows very well. He slowly walks you backwards as you tug his belt loose and undo his jeans, your fingers hooking into denim and cotton to push down as you fall onto the bed in a pile of hot desire and swollen lips.  
  
Sam hooks one strong arm around your back, effortlessly tugging you up the length of the squeaky mattress until your head hits the downy pillows at the top. He's kicked out his boots, toed off his socks, and has fully bared his lower half along the way, his lips still attached to yours in a frenzy, tongue-and-teeth kind of way. And you're already a writhing wreck beneath him, fisting his hair between your fingers and whimpering pathetically around his tongue where it's tangled with yours.  
  
Sam's strongly cut and narrow hips have settled between the soft and supple flesh of your thighs, his growing cock sliding between your already soaked folds. You moan for him, relinquishing his lips and tipping your head back as you splay your hands out on his back. Sam trails the tip of his nose along the stretched curve of your throat, his lips parted and his warm, humid breathing coating your heated skin, making your lips part in a silent gasp.  
  
You watch with intrigued, hooded eyes as he drags his tongue along three of his fingers, moaning wantonly when he shoves the hand between your bodies and starts rubbing your throbbing clit. He tests how wet you are by sliding a finger inside you, a deep, throaty moan vibrating through him when he feels you wrapped around his roughened skin.  
  
There's no need for words, because Sam can see it in the way your pupils dilate and how your body responds to him. He positions the thick head of his cock between your puffy lips, and slides through them, trying to pace himself but failing miserably. You scream out brokenly as he slides home with one quick snap, the heavy weight of his balls pressed against your ass and the way his hips meet flush with yours almost bringing a tear of happiness to your eye.  
  
Sam doesn't move right away, letting the both of you just feel each other until the palpable need grows to be too overwhelming. "It's been too long," Sam whispers, his lust-dark eyes looking right down into yours as he braces his hands on either side of your head, pulling his hips back before delivering a harsh, body-numbing thrust forward. "To. Fucken. _Long_." He grits out, sharply thrusting between each word, and you sing for him, crying out and throwing your head back into the pillows as you reach up to tightly fist at the corners of them.  
  
Your legs fall open wide and your body melts into a pliable mess beneath the agility and power or Sam's, the sharp, chiseled definition of his body a beautifully delicious contrast against the soft and smooth look of your own. He's all hard flesh, both in _and_ around you, his kiss-swollen lips parted to make way for a guttural melody of moans and shouts of passion that mingles with the symphony that is your own song of sounds.  
  
The sheer intensity of it all and the way Sam's looking down at you with such heated devotion, has you coming quick and unexpected, the deep vibrations of the release reaching all the way to the tips of your fingers and toes. Sam fucks you through it, pounding into the soft fluttering of your weeping cunt as he watches the way your body tightens and releases and listens to the way you scream so sweet and loud for him.  
  
Your senses are razor sharp and suddenly, Sam's all around you; his familiar scent, the slick slide of his skin, the harsh slap of his flesh meeting yours, and the fiery kaleidoscope gaze that you missed more than anything in your life. And there's no stopping the tears that prick your eyes as you watch him drown in the throes of ecstasy, your lips trembling as you whimper and wordlessly beg for more, for _everything_.  
  
Sam slides a hand up under your head, dropping his forehead down against yours as his hips piston back and forth with blurred speed, his jaw slack as he breathes out gasping moans. Even through your come-drunk haze, you can tell he’s close and you're begging him to come inside you, the words mixed with sobbing moans and punched-out gasps of pleasure.   
  
Sam roars with his release, his agile hips jerking roughly into yours as he swells and empties deep within your walls, coating your insides with thick, warm ropes, and the intensity of his release and the punishing pace he's set is enough to throw you over the edge once more, thrashing beneath him and clawing down his back as it rocks you right down to the very core of yourself. Sam presses his lips into yours as he wills himself to a slow stop, his tongue thick and hot between your lips as he breathes harshly.  
  
You ache so sweetly, your body exhausted but nowhere near empty of the heady desire that's still coursing hot through your veins. Sam takes notice, and he's trailing his open mouth down the length of your body until his head is buried between your thighs, his tongue sliding between your swollen and flush lips to lick up the mess he's made of you.  
  
The screams that rip up through your throat are damn near enough to tear the walls of the motel room down into miserable heaps of wood and nails. You rock down into Sam's hard-working mouth, your chest heaving with the failure to steady your breathing as he eats at you like a man who's been starved of your taste. He sucks at your lips and tongues at your hypersensitive clit in a frenzied rush fueled by the devastating hunger that vibrates deep within his bones, one that leaves you thoroughly wrecked.  
  
Once you've came one more time for him—good and loud—Sam crawls back up your trembling body, licking up the salty taste of your slick skin until he's kissing you long and deep. He thrusts his tongue into your mouth, letting you taste the headiness of your combined flavors, and there's no way of stopping the way your lips tremble against his, your emotions running high and overwhelming as he gives you everything he can.  
  
Sam moves down, settling his face in the crook of your neck as he angles his body so he's half laying on you and half on the mattress, his legs a tangled mess with yours as he trembles against you. He breathes shakily into your skin, inhaling your scent and breathing it back out in warm puffs. You trail a hand through his hair, reveling in the longer tresses and the way it's strewn wildly atop his head.  
  
Neither of you speak for what seems like hours, just breathing each other in and letting the tears spill hot from your eyes. It's pure, raw emotion that overwhelms the two of you, the solidarity of feeling each other again proving to be more moving than you ever dreamt possible. And all at once, those cracks in your heart that you carried for over three years stitch back together piece by piece.  
  
"We didn't even say hello," Sam chuckles lightly into your neck once he finds the courage to speak, fearful of ruining the moment. You breathe out a laugh, pressing your cheek against his head as you stare up at the ceiling, dazed and happy. "The whole drive here, I thought about what I was going to say when I saw you," he says in a soft voice as he drags his head up, his wet eyes meeting yours, "But when you opened the door, I just...my mind went blank and all I could think about was kissing you."  
  
"I'm glad you did," you smile, thumbing at his damp cheeks and over the curve of his Cupid's bow, "I've dreamed about it ever since I..."  
  
"Me, too," Sam grins, "Every night."  
  
After that, you fill each other in on what the last three years had been like. Sam tells you about coming back soulless, and how Dean made a deal with Death to get it back. He tells you how the wall between soul and mind eventually broke, and how he dealt with the hallucinations of Lucifer by checking into a ward. He tells you the good, the bad, and the _very_ bad—everything you'd left him alone to deal with. He slides his thumbs under your eyes where fresh tears had pooled as you listened to him relive it all, his voice trembling with certain parts as he smiles sadly.  
  
"It's not your fault," Sam whispers when he sees the undeniable guilt dance in your watery eyes, "I don't blame you for any of it."  
  
"I shouldn't have left," you whimper, your throat aching from the new batch of tears you're ineffectively willing yourself not to cry, "I should have been there when you needed me the most. I hate myself for leaving you alone to deal with all of that; I was selfish in my decision to run away."  
  
"You were doing what you thought was best," Sam says in a soft voice as he brushes the hair away from your forehead, "And, in my heart of hearts, I'm glad you left." You bite your bottom lip, choking back a sob. "Not because I didn't love you, because _God_ , Y/N, I did--I _still_ do; but because I don't think I could have watched you deal with the burden of it all."  
  
"And never for a fraction of a single _second_ ," he continues, "Did I hate you or blame you for any terrible thing that happened to me. Not a day went by where I didn't think of you, even when I was soulless." He stops to chuckle through his tears. "I wondered if you were safe, if you were happy, if you still loved me the way that I loved you. It was always _you_ , and even on my worst days; the thought of seeing your smile or hearing your voice again made everything better, even if it was only for a second."  
  
You nod, fresh tears spilling thick and hot down your face. "I have too many dreams roped up in you to ever stop loving you," he says in a quiet voice, "My heart would have to stop beating before that thought _ever_ crossed my mind."  
  
"I love you," you whisper, smiling through your tears as you cradle his face in your hands, "With every part of my heart, mind, and soul; I love you, Sam Winchester. And I would spend my last breath on those words, just so you could hear them one more time."  
  
Sam bites down into his bottom lip, his chin wobbling as tears pool in his eyes. He drops his head to kiss you, slow and sweet and perfect, and it's like your whole world has fallen into place and light has filled the dark emptiness that you had felt since that night where goodbyes were never exchanged.  
  
Three years, three months, five days, eleven hours, two minutes, and forty-five seconds.  
  
That's how long it took you to see that Sam Winchester was, and would _always_ be, the man you loved more than anything else in the entire world.


End file.
